11 WAYS TO TIP A HAT
by foxdvd
Summary: He works with them day in and day out.  What does he think about them? How does he feel about them? 11 oneshots from Flack's POV regarding those close and closer to him.
1. ADAM

**A/N:** I was listening to one of my favorite albums (Miguel Bosé, 11 Maneras de Ponerse un Sombrero) and it gave me the idea of writing eleven separate one shots, written from Flack's viewpoint. The titles are taken form the album. Let me know what you think of this… experiment.

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ADAM / CAUSES AND CHANCES

I seldom see you out of the lab, and I'd hardly pegged you for a hero, so it was a bit of a shock to see you do both on the same day.

You're a survivor. I know you are. Somehow, your past got to me through the grapevine. You're still a geek, but a courageous geek. Not that it changes much, but it does change my perception of who you are and how much to trust you. I don't dislike geeks, and unlike popular belief, I have a great deal of respect for you guys. You know stuff that I've never heard of in my life. What gets me sometimes is the way your knowledge makes me feel, like the biggest bumbling idiot in town. But not you. I don't know if it's my height, my badge or my attitude, but I often have the feeling that you're afraid of me. And you shouldn't.

I know that given the chance, you'd have my back, and in our line of work, that knowledge is priceless. I know, deep down, that if it weren't for you and your dedication to detail and investigation half the times the suspects I collar would walk free. I know that, in the long run, it's actually you and not me who manages to get them behind bars. I do the leg work while you do the brain work, and you'll have to agree that it works better that way, cause I lack the patience to wait for a print to show up in CODIS or for one of those machines to cough up the origin of a substance, and I don't really see you running behind a fugitive, while dodging traffic and bullets.

But you have the courage. In the past, you chose to be a survivor rather than a victim, and that inner strength is what's got you here today, trying to save other victims and helping other survivors get back on their feet. In the present… hell, I was shaking inside my Kevlar vest when I faced those bastards, and I had a rifle in my hands. You had nothing but your wits and your guts, and you're still around to tell the tale, which is a lot more than their other victims can say

And what do you know, you also got the girl! Well, maybe not get, get, but close. It's really only a matter of time, and nowadays you look so giddily sweet skirting around each other... it's enough to induce a diabetic comma in a healthy man. Nah. Don't mind me much. It's just wishful thinking talking. Six months ago, a year ago, I would have said she was too pretty to be a lab rat and too pretty to be interested in you. I would have probably tried to score with her. Maybe Messer too, but that would have been before Montana. Now we both know better; he knows he's gone for good, and I know you deserve the best. Hell, we all do. So go for it, Adam. Pursue Kendall as if you two were meant to be. You probably are.

Just don't wait too long. I know it's a lot like the pot calling the kettle black. You survived two decades of abuse and were always afraid of doing or saying something wrong that would get you back to square one. All it took was some torturing five months ago and you said enough. Good for you. For me it's more than a year and I've still to make up my mind as to where to start. Perhaps you coudl help me out there, some day...

_Because th__e causes were closing down on you, on a daily basis, invisible to your eyes, and chances began twisting around you, powerful and invincible…_

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"Causas y Azares" by Silvio Rodríguez seemed the right choice for Adam, as he became an unwilling hero simply by being in the wrong place at the right time.


	2. ANGELL & MAKKA

**A/N: ** Now it's the turn for Detectives Angell and Makka. Too bad we don't get to see them often! Doesn't mean Flack doesn't get to see them, does it?

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ANGELL & MAKKA – LIE, SALOME & PALM TREES

If you asked my father, he'd tell you that females did great work in the police force… as clerical workers. He's never believed that a woman's place is in the field. Although I'm pretty sure either one of you could give us Flacks a run for our money or swiftly kick our asses, I tend to agree with my old man.

Don't get me wrong. It has nothing to do with your ability to do the job. At least for me; if you want my father's take on the issue, take it to him. All I know is that you gals go out there and make a fine job, better than some slobs that will remain unnamed (yeah, I'm talking to you, Ferreti) for the sake of this argument.

You give the force… I dunno… a sexy glow? A sense of being with the times? And call me a misogynist pig, but knowing there's a good chance I'll be working with a nice looking gal makes the prospect of spending the next 12 hours running all over the city a helluva lot more bearable.

Take Makka, for example. She's a martial arts kitten and then some. She's got killer legs, and in more sense than one. One of the first cases we had to work together, we split searching for a possible suspect hidden inside a warehouse. I was looking around on the first floor when I heard her yelling at someone to stop. I nearly busted knees and ankles jumping my way down those darned rickety stairs running to help her. Turns out she didn't need my help in the least. The moment the perp saw me he began screaming to get her off him, that she was a crazy Bruce Lee wannabe out to kill him. I mirandized the creep in between deep breaths, and she was as fresh as a cucumber. I swear she was filing her nails, trying hard not to laugh at me, or at him, or at both of us.

Needless to say, I fell hard for her.

Fortunately, I never told her. She dated me twice and then dropped me. She dated Messer three times. Not that I was keeping score. Neither one of us got very far with her, and not for lack of trying. I blame those legs of her. I swear they give any sane man all sorts of ideas.

_It's a lie, she says she loves me, she says she feels my pain…_ Makka is one of those girls looking solely for a Mr. Right Now. She turned me down quite nicely, mind you, telling me I was one of those guys who have all the makings for a great Mr. Right Forever, but she just wasn't the woman that was looking for what I had to offer. Nicest thing anyone has ever told me whilst ripping my heart apart.

Then there's Angell. She's got this Mediterranean look about her that makes you feel… wantonly. _In the rhythm of her divine voice is the rhyme of love, and in the dark circles around her eyes you can see the palm trees, drunken with the sun…_

A couple of dates she refused to call dates later, I found out that my timing sucked. Big time. She was nursing a broken heart, broken by another detective no less, and she wasn't looking for anything serious just yet. Or with another cop, for that matter. We became good friends, confidants at times, and my respect for her has grown immensely.

Now that she's ready to start thinking seriously about starting a new relationship, it's too late for us. She says we know each other far too well for it to work out, that the relationship bus for us left the station a long time ago, and that we're better off as just friends who sometimes grab a beer after a lousy shift or end up playing a round or two of one-on-one after a lazy Sunday brunch. I agree with her. Time has this way of making relationships shift, and ours has, towards friendship. Besides, these days I'm more inclined towards other type of woman…

Perhaps I'll set her up with Doc Hawkes. Me thinks that's just what she needs. And as long as she's happy, I'm happy as well.

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"Mentira Salomé" by I. Piñeiro and "Palmeras" by Agustin Lara; this track is the only one that's got more than one song… somehow I thought it fitted the two female detectives…


	3. DANNY

**A/N: **I was wondering the other day… if we, the viewers, have noticed the subtle changes in Danny's attitude since he fell for his Montana… what does someone closer to him, like Flack, has noticed?

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DANNY / LOVE AFTER LOVE

_I grew__ strong there, where I never saw, no one can tell me who I am…_

Oh, I know you're a strong one, Danno. In every sense of the word. You've spent half your life fighting and there's still plenty of that to spread around, if need be.

It couldn't have been easy growing up the way you did, always trying to prove something, and always having to stay one step ahead in order to survive. Some last names force a man to always achieve to be bigger than them, I know that. Especially when there's an older sibling whose footsteps seem to big for you to fill… or for you to want to follow them. That's just two of the many things we have in common.

You almost managed to get out. Almost. I wonder what the hell were you thinking when you got into that bar fight that cost you your future. Truth to be told, I don't think you were thinking at all, not when you knew your hands were your ticket out of Staten Island, out of the mob, out of the streets. Had it been me, I'd probably have spent my nights hitting the books to try to get out of there even faster. But, then again, I'd have also tried to beat the living crap out of the bozo who messed with my family, as well.

After you joined the force, we sort of drifted towards each other. It seemed only natural, as you were trying to prove you were nothing like your old man and I was busting my ass to prove I was exactly like mine, only better. The other guys made fun of us when we were by ourselves, but once we began hanging out… they thought about it better and life was a lot easier.

My old man almost had a seizure when he found out. I'm guessing yours wasn't that pleased, either. But we told them both to leave us the hell alone, perhaps in less diplomatic words than that and it worked. We started to hang out after work, on weekends, and soon it was a given that to find one of us you just had to find the other one.

That's when the scoring game began. It was mindless, stupid fun, but hell, we were just twenty-two and we didn't know better. Or perhaps we did, but we refused to acknowledge it. Either way, the number of notches in our bedposts grew, as did our fame for being a couple of players. We never meant for things to get serious, and we could always rely on the other one to help us out if things got too hot to handle.

Remember Marissa? Looking back, we should have been ashamed of ourselves. But back then, it seemed only fair. She thought it would be fun to play with both of us, and we thought it would be fun to see her try. So she went out with you on Friday, went out with me on Saturdays and we spent Sundays comparing notes. She told you she was an only child, she told me she had two sisters; and we switched information back and forth until the poor woman didn't know up from down. If she had kept her facts straight, or if she had told us the truth, perhaps we wouldn't have been so mean about it. I still can see her face when we both showed up at her doorstep, claiming that she had agreed to go with both of us on the same night, and pushing until she broke down and 'fessed up. We left her there, crying after making an utter fool of herself, and went to Sullivan's for a beer and an easy pick-up. Not one of our finest moments.

Then there was Sherrie, the one that got away because she refused to play our game. And Lorraine… the only woman we actually fought for. We learned a couple of things after that: we never went after the same woman again, and I never sought actively to get in on your bad side. You pack one mean punch, Messer, and if that's your hand with lessened strength, I sure wouldn't have wanted to be on the receiving end of it when it was at its prime.

When we reached 30 we took a long hard look at our lives. Serial dating wasn't so appealing anymore, no matter how much you denied wanting to fall in love and settle down. You were still doing the "love 'em and leave 'em" routine when things began to become too serious and I… I was starting to want things to get serious, but falling time and time again for your female equivalents. There were times when I was tempted to go back to our "trading" days, so you could fool around without breaking any hearts and I might get a chance of actually falling in love instead of lust for a change.

I thought we'd hit our 35th anniversary exactly the same way, but then something happened. Montana happened. I'd never seen you fall so hard and so deep and I envied you all the time I was making fun of you. Danny Messer, Casanova extraordinaire, had been caught by a cowgirl, and all she had to do was demand you to make tracks and eat deep fried tarantulas.

And I'm happy for you both. It couldn't have been easy, with all that shit from her past she had to deal with. When I heard you had flown to Montana (the state, not the girl, you'd flown to her a long time before that) just to be with her in her moment of greatest need, I knew your player days were over. And I felt happy, envious, but happy.

You're a good man, Messer, and you deserve all the happiness this crappy world we live in can dish out your way. I know you're in for the long run, and I'll probably won't make too much fuss when you finally ask me to be your best man before accepting to do it. On those dead minutes to kill in between writing up our cases paperwork I've started to work on my speech for the reception.

Don't worry, I won't mention all of the girls in your past… only those I'll know will make you squirm in your seat, under your tux bowtie, and that will give Montana hours of sadistic fun asking you about them when you start to give her any sort of grief. Not that she needs it, though. She's quite capable of roping you in, one hand tied behind her back.

Have you ever asked her if there's a friend of hers who might be interested in relocating to New York?

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"El amor después del amor" by Fito Paez seemed like a good choice for Mr. Messer, as it seems that he's found love after all those years of pretending to be in love…


	4. DEVON

**A/N: ** I'm not sure how much we'll be hearing from her, or how much I'D like to see of her, but if TPTB decided she was important enough to give her an episode… I'm not going to argue with them. Although my take on her might be slightly different, though…

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DEVON – BEAUTY

_Now that walls have fallen down, we're not equal anymore; how much you've got, how much you're worth… _

To say that I knew it was over before it had even started would be to state the obvious. But I had to give it a try. I had some things to prove to myself, and if I'm honest enough, to prove to the brutes I work with, as well.

I guess I could blame Messer for the whole thing, although that wouldn't be playing fair. Aw, hell, who am I trying to fool here? I don't' play fair, so I'll blame Messer and be done with it. Bottom line was, most of the squad had heard about our player antics, but had yet to actually see me put the moves on someone and I was getting plenty of heat from it. I know. Childish. But it bothered me. There comes a time when all the jokes about you "alleged" charms and the gay references start rubbing you the wrong way.

So when I saw her at the hockey game I decided to take my chances.

It was obvious she wasn't there to root for the police or the fire department. She was there simply for the publicity of having attended a charity affair and for the curiosity of seeing how the other half lived and partied.

She wasn't all that smooth in her approach. The line she gave me about wanting to know if the blue in my eyes was for real or if I was wearing contacts was a bit… lame. But hey, there she was, a perky blonde fawning all over me while the rest of the force just looked on with a green tinge on their faces and decided to overlook that flaw.

I made a huge show of giving her my card before heading for the showers to shower and change, and she acknowledged it with a kiss on the cheek. I hate the feel of sticky lipstick on my face, but I knew there was this perfect pouty imprint in red for the rest of the world to see, so I fought the urge to wipe it off.

I won't go into the all sorts of comments that received me once I made it into the locker room, let's just say that not one of them had to do with the 20 or so shots I had just stopped. The next day I was at my desk, listening to yet another joke at my expense about how I was going to sit around forever waiting for a call that wasn't coming, when the phone rang. The smirk of satisfaction in my face could not be erased for hours, especially since I managed to score a date with her loud enough for everyone who cared, and didn't, to hear.

Our first date wasn't so bad, as she asked me to go to yet another charity event. After the first couple of hours or so, I knew exactly how trophy wives must feel, except that I hope the guys who show up with them on their arms and their cronies are more discreet about them than these society girls. It was sorta flattering to find out many of them thought I was good looking enough to ask if I was a model or an actor or something like that; but it ran thin very quickly and it was replaced with annoyance at their reaction when they found out I was a police officer. Perhaps they've seen one too many reruns of "NYPD Blue" or something like that, but the gun and handcuffs comments got to be a tad… too much for me.

But at least those were better than the off-hand remarks about me being a blue collar. I knew right then and there that I'd never fit into her world and I was certain there wouldn't be a follow-up date. Not when her girl friends couldn't get past the fact that someone that was "such a looker" (their words, not mine) actually worked for a living, and when her male friends eyed me suspiciously, asking over and over again if I wasn't working undercover, or narcs, or fraud… talk about a dirty conscience!

Much to my surprise, she asked to see me again when I dropped her off at her place. Only this time around she wanted me to take her someplace I'd normally go on a regular date. Movie, dinner, drinks and pool. She was all for it. Except that she'd never been to an old neighborhood movie theater ("Don't you have Cineplex around here?"), was not big on eating meat ("Don't they serve salads as main dish?") , was amused by my choice of drink (black Guinness, is there another kind of drink?) and upset by the lack of hers ("Can't believe they can't make appletinis…"). As for the pool… she'd only seen it played in the movies, and was more than willing to let me show her how to play… as long as I had my arms wrapped around her.

I complied. The same way I complied about walking her all the way to her apartment. The same way I complied when she pushed the stop button at the elevator and proceeded to make out. I may be a hero for some, but I sure ain't no saint, and my dating life had been… slow… since the bombing, so I wasn't complaining.

I thought I'd never hear from her again after I refused to go into her place for a night cap. So I was kind of shocked when she asked me over for drinks at her apartment after she was done with yet another benefit. I'm not stupid; I know perfectly well what drinks at her place on a third day meant. I slipped a couple of brand-new condoms on the inside pocket of my coat on the way to pick her up, and I knew my understanding was right when we started making out in the living room.

It wasn't the most thrilling experience of my life. She was more into being pleased than into pleasing, but I wasn't going to look at a gift horse in the mouth. She attempted twice to remove my undershirt and I stopped her both times, and she seemed content to limit herself to run her hands all over my ass. I was content with that, as I didn't' want to go into details as to why I didn't want that shirt removed…

Then we got interrupted by the whole James bond wannabe lunatics. And my relationship with her had to come out to the open. And since I was at her place and not exactly fully clothed, I did the gentlemanly thing and called her my girlfriend instead of calling her my date. My friends were a tad surprised at that, and tried not to be too judgmental about it, but I could see it in Stell's sarcastic smile when we were finishing processing her place searching for clues. She gave me this knowing look, as if she had hoped I was a better man and I felt like a chastised kid for that

So maybe that was what closed the deal. That, or Devon's inability to see why I couldn't cough up 500 bucks at her beck and call to go to yet another fundraiser. Nor could she understand why I wouldn't take her offer to "lend" me the money so we could go.

It was nice while it lasted. She's not a bad kid, and I'm sure she'll make some guy very happy one of these days. Except that guy ain't me. Sure, she was great looking, and she had money to spend on whatever whim suit her fancy, but… I don't know. Maybe I've been around those lab geeks too much, but these days I find myself looking for something with a little bit more substance… I don't object to pretty, as long as it has a good head atop those pretty shoulders.

All in all, I proved what I set out to prove. I still have what it takes to get the girl, and it seems I have enough good looks about myself to even manage to snag a society girl. I proved to the jerks I work with I'm still a man's man, going the James Bond route, from excelling at a sport to getting the girl to wearing the tux.

I also proved to myself that I don't really fancy blondes…

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"La Belleza" by Luis Eduardo Aute was just the right song for Devon. Don't let the title fool you. The song has nothing to do with external beauty as something to be praised, but more as something to be pitied and used as bargain coin… any questions why I though it was fitting? Hmmm… thought so…


	5. FLACK JR

**A/N: ** A little self-introspection never hurt anyone…

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DON FLACK JR. / DON'T FORGET ME

_Must forget everything, can I forget who fled in the already forgotten the times of misunderstandings and lost time, forget how those hours were sometimes viewed as the sacred heart of happiness_

Life's supposed to be simple. You are supposed to be able to see it in terms of black and white, before and after, yesterday and today. There's no room for grey areas, in between moments and musings about the future. Or there shouldn't be, anyway.

But why do I feel like I've been stuck in those precise areas? The shrink I was forced to see after the bombing kept telling me that near-death experiences such as mine force us to face our own immortality, which is hard for common people and even harder for us public servers that are used to be seen as something close to semi-Gods. Problem is, we buy the whole "we're invincible" bullshit after a while; after all, we dodge bullets for a living.

Whatever lessons we learned after 9/11 regarding our fallibility have been forgotten with the passing of time. We get the bad guys, we dodge the bullet, we manage to go home in one piece, all so part of a routine that you start taking it for granted… until you get almost blown to pieces by a bomb.

And then you cannot longer see your life in terms of black and white. What ifs start falling form your lips as easily as mirandas used to do, and you learn to put up a new face, very different from the ones you wear when you're interrogating a suspect and want him to do as you wish him to do, and on the inside you feel like your cheating even on your friends and family for putting on a brave face and act as a tough macho guy when all you really want is to bawl your heart out and be comforted as if you were a small child who just scraped a knee on his first solo bike ride.

But you manage to cling to life and your cop stubbornness helps you nurse yourself back to "normal", whatever people call normal these days. And then you start a whole new game called second guessing. You second guess everything you do: did I use to run at this speed before? Did I use to take this long to draw my gun? Did my voice sound so wavering when I ordered a suspect to stop? And the worst of the whole lot: did my coworkers used to look at me like that?

And you realize you're not the only one playing the second guessing game. You can read it in the faces of those around you, as well. Was he ready to go back into the field? Is he going to bust something in there running like that? Is he the same cop he used to be? Wouldn't it have been better to grant him early retirement? Is he fit to keep working homicide?

And you resort to that new trick you learned at the hospital and you start putting up new faces, confident, cocky faces, so they stop their mental flow of questions and you can pretend that everything is back to normal when deep inside you know it just isn't so. And you start pushing yourself farther and farther, ten more reps at the Nautilus machine here, fifteen more push-ups there, and pretty soon you're running solely on momentum and it's okay, cause if you don't stop you don't think and you don't want to think, at least, not right now, not today, and you promise yourself you'll take a good long hard look at yourself and your life tomorrow.

Except that "tomorrow" gets pushed into the next week, and the next week gets pushed into the next month and before you know it a year has gone by and you haven't stopped to catch your breath, and you know that sooner or later everything is bound to catch up with you and there's going to be hell to pay and there aren't enough places in New York to hide for long.

And still you keep going. You keep going because you have a family name to uphold, and a reputation of hero to keep adding to. You keep going because people out there are counting on you to keep their backs safe and their lives moving on. You keep going because you think that if you go far enough SHE will see you in a different light and perhaps that would make everything else worth it. You keep going because you have no other choice.

But there are days when you're getting tired. You get tired of running. You get tired of putting up that optimistic face for the entire world you see. You get tired of doing the right thing, what's expected of you. You get tired of pretending you don't care that she's standing within an inch from you and you can't reach out and touch her.

And you wonder what would happen if you simply stop. If you admitted that the whole thing was bigger than you and that you gave your best but can't do so anymore and you're stepping down and allow others to play hero for a while. If you told them you felt like shit whenever they ask you how you're feeling. If you were to announce that you no longer wished to be a cop, and maybe 30 wasn't too old to start doing something else. If next time you stood next to her you pulled her closer instead of pulling away…

You're a cop, and a damn fine one, as well. Some even go as far as calling you a hero, but you feel undeserving of that title.

You're a good son, having tried to keep up the end of the bargain that came with the last name you inherited, a big responsibility and you've pulled it off time and time again, no matter how crushing it felt at times.

You're a good friend, you hurt when your friends hurt but, most important, they know you've got their back and you know they've got yours.

And you're a good man. Life has thrown you curve balls now and then and you've managed not to fumble too badly, and you've tried to behave like a gentleman whenever you've had he chance, so maybe it isn't asking for too much to find the right woman to love and be loved by. Maybe it isn't too much to ask to be loved by her…

Maybe it isn't too much to ask to get your life as it was pre-bombing, either.

But I know I'm kidding myself. I ain't going back to being that old me, because I'm simply not that man anymore, and being blown up has nothing to do with it. I am who I am by choice, not heritage; by own volition, not mere chance.

I am who I am. Don't forget that. Don't ever forget that.

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"Ne me quitte pas" by J. Brel is one of those songs that always make me feel like crying, even though I don't always understand the lyrics (it's in French) but the feeling used to sing it… pure melancholia.


	6. FLACK SR

**A/N: ** Haven't you wondered what the real story behind those Flacks is?

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DON FLACK SR. - COSTUME AND LOVE

_And when I get lost in the city, you know where I'm coming from, it's just for a little while, it's either cry, or go kill someone out there…_

Some inheritances are harder to bear than others… specially those that you inherit unwillingly. I know you hadn't planned things like this, either. I wonder if Mom were still around… never mind. I won't go in there.

Most people simply assume that I'm your only son. I know neither one of us has done anything to dispel the notion. Actually, I don't think no one has ever asked me. As for those who knew you, I guess they know better and let sleeping dogs lie,

I miss them, both of them. I guess I miss them differently, that's all. I know I can visit Mom at St. Mary's any day I want, and I do, once a month. As childish as it may seem, I talk to her as if she were my guardian angel or something like that, always asking for guidance and protection. I feel that is I ask her to look out for me nothing bad will happen. Guess what I forgot to do that Sunday morning almost two years ago when I was called into duty unexpectedly? Uh-huh… I didn't get a chance to pray that day.

As for Des… missing him is harder; not knowing where he is or how he is, it is even harder. And I know I said I wouldn't mention it, but have you ever wondered what would have happened if Mom hadn't died when she did? Do you think Desmond would have bailed the way he did?

I know you've told me that as parents you try not to put labels in your kids. But you did label us, somehow. I know Mom talked you out of giving your first name to your first born. The minute the doctor told you it was a boy, it was decreed he'd be a cop, just like you. That's when Mom suggested not calling him Don, but Desmond, like Grandpa, so he'd grow to be his own man and carve his own legend in the force.

When I came along, and since she had so much trouble giving birth to me, you decided to pass on the first name along with the last one. Then again, I wasn't expected to be a cop. I could, if I chose to, but Mom secretly hoped I'd take the college route and become a lawyer or something. Consciously or not, you labeled us both from birth, encouraging him to play basketball ("Cops go out and play after shifts") and me to play hockey ("Scholarship, Don, think about how a sports scholarship would make it easier for you to go to college").

And we bought them. Not because we wanted to, but because it's what YOU wanted from us and we didn't know better. And when we did, we decided not to say it out loud.

I knew Des didn't want to follow in your footsteps, but I kept quiet. Does the make me as guilty as he is in your eyes? Do you consider it as big a betrayal as you consider his? Hasn't my taking his place made it up to you somehow? I've tried, Pops, I really have. But nothing seems to be good enough for you anymore.

After Mom died everything just went to hell, didn't it? Even though I was barely 15 and didn't know better, I knew you and Des couldn't seem to agree on anything anymore. Those last months he was home were long and lonely; you two spent every single moment together fighting or sulking and I just sat there, in the middle, thinking that if I was quiet enough you'd forget I was there, and if I concentrated real hard I could pretend I was somewhere else, thousands of miles away. It never worked, though. I always ended as the sounding board for you both, having to listen to both sides of the story and not being able to do more than agree with you both, for fear of disrupting what little communication there was in our family.

Des' note telling us he was leaving to search for his own life wasn't that big a surprise, was it? I guess you should have seen it coming, I mean, I saw it coming… but I guess you just didn't feel like looking at what was happening in front of you, didn't feel like accepting that the mental picture you had in your mind for so long had been shredded to pieces. Did you always picture you and Mom sitting together, holding hands, as you watched Des receiving his badge? Did you imagine the two of you together driving me off to college somewhere? Did you think of the future and saw the two of you together, still going strong, surrounded by your grandchildren?

Mom's ill-timed death cracked the façade of your dreams, but Des' leaving shattered it beyond repair. It was as if a light had gone off inside of you. And it got so quiet at home, and the silence grew to be so bad I almost wished Des was back with you fighting… your angry voices were ten times better than the deafening, oppressing silence that surrounded us both.

It made me so mad. It made me feel like yelling at you to look at me. I carry your name, dammit; I'm part of you, look at me! But I kept quiet; I respected your mourning period and tried to deal with mine as best as I could.

I attended vocational school for a year after high school. When Desmond left, he took with him my chances of going to college. We barely spoke of that possibility, and I knew we hadn't been financially prepared to deal with Mom's medical expenses… my college fund waned alongside her health. Vocational school forced me to take a good, hard look at what I wanted in life.

It wasn't a big shock when the results of our tests came back and it turned out that all along it ought to have been me who was considered your heir apparent. I enrolled in the Academy without consulting with you. I wanted to do right by you. I hoped my decision would make you happy and we could go back to the way we were when Mom was with us. I was 20, Pops; please give my naivety some fucking credit.

I remember your face when I told you. And I remember your reaction as well. I want to believe that you were even more shocked than I was when you realized what you had just done. The physical damage of the blow has long since healed, but I'd be lying if I told you the emotional one has done so. Ten years have gone by, and that punch, bred out of frustration and rage, stands between us, thicker and taller than any wall.

Moving out of your place into a tiny room I could barely afford was never questioned. You just handed me what little money Mom had left me, and mumbled what I can only hope was a blessing of some sort. You came to my graduation from the Academy in what I can only imagine was a bittersweet moment since it wasn't what you had planned for your family, but deep down I hope you were pleased, somehow…

But we've never looked back. When Captain called you to tell you I was being promoted to Detective, and I know you knew before I did, you kept quiet. Oh, you played the part of the satisfied, proud father with the higher ups, but not one word was spared my way. When I got blown up… Mac told me you showed up once or twice, while there was still a chance of me not making it, but after I was out of danger you stopped going and started calling and when I got discharged from the hospital the calls stopped altogether.

When I made news after the cocaine bust you came by the precinct, but I was out. You left a note, though. Nice to know you didn't expect any less from me. It would have been nice to know I had finally made you proud, but I guess that given the circumstances that would be asking for too much.

You handed me down your blue dress and your names and the old school of tough love and a fading memory of a happy family life that was ours once upon a time. I hope you know I wear the first two with pride and love…

They're my inheritance, and I treasure it for all it's worth.

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"Un vestido y un amor" by Fito Paez was just so right for what I had in mind for Flack's relationship with his dad after hearing his reference to a brother in episode 4.4. Younger brothers don't get away with making fun of their older brothers, so…


	7. GERRARD

**A/N: **We know that neither Gerrard nor Sinclair are exactly choir boys… can you imagine what is it like to actually WORK for them?

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GERRARD & SINCLAIR / YOU ABUSED

_You abused my good will and took advantage of me… you abused_

Once upon a time, when you're so green you'd drip chlorophyll instead of blood if you got hurt; you tended to idolize your higher ups.

You believed they got where they are after many hours of walking the beat, after running after many suspects, after putting away many criminals. And you want to be just like them when you grow up. They have this semi-god glow about them that blinds you and makes you feel like worshipping them. In your star-filled eyes, they can do no wrong; and their decisions, no matter how harsh, are always right. If someone got hurt by those decisions, you're the first one to believe that it pained them to take them, and that they agonized for hours on end, and that they analyzed every angle until they were one hundred three per cent sure there was no other way out.

Captains never EVER hurt their people on purpose, or put their own benefit before the force. And if you believed that, one day you woke up to find out you had bought a tiny island with a statue on it…

After a while, however, the tarnish starts loosing its glow, and the true colors start shining through. You realize that some of those above you were placed there without having done more than an hour of leg work. You start paying more attention to the rumor mill and start putting two and two together when it comes to the truthfulness of their actions and their decisions.

In short, you start seeing them as they really are. And it's not a pretty picture.

The worst part is, they started thinking they were going to do some good. A lot of good. They were going to be different form their predecessors, they were going to keep clean, and they were not going to make a compromise between what was right and their political future. The worst part is, some of them really believed it, and they fought the system for as long as they could.

But sometimes the system just eats you up. Those who managed to resist end up being spitted by it, demoted, removed from active duty, given an early retirement… and end up sitting on the sidelines, watching how the others play the game they refused to get involved with in the first place. The saddest part is that they are considered fools and losers for standing their ground instead of being praised for their courage to stand up to corruption.

The worst part is when you get caught in between. No mater how hard you try to stay away from the whole politics game, sooner or later you do something that pulls you closer to it. Sometimes, it is something as simple as making Detective. Then you do something else, no biggie, just doing your job the best you can, and the next thing you know you're making headlines… and not just in the newspaper. Next thing you know, you're on one-way first-name basis and the brass knows who you are. Soon you realize they know a lot more about you than you'd like. And such information in their hands could be dangerous.

Gerrard thought he had me all figured out, that the mere mention of disappointing my father would be enough to make me march to whatever tune he played. If he had really done his homework, he'd have realized that neither Pops nor I give a rat's ass about those kinds of games… or what the other one thinks about us. But I played nice, stiffening just so, enough for him to think he had me where he wanted.

When he and Sinclair thought Mac would make one fine scapegoat, they thought they had their stooge cut out for them. Mac would never suspect me, would he? He would notice if they placed a tail on him, but me… he'd never think I was up to no good. Brilliant plan, except that I wasn't in on it.

To say that neither one of them was pleased would be an understatement. When Mac pulled the rug from under them, they partially blamed me. Sinclair keeps reminding me that there's a whole shiny world of opportunities for a young, fine detective such as myself… it's just a matter of being in the right place, with the right people. I told him I was more from the old school of earning things on my own than accepting hand downs from the higher ups.

He looked at me with a mixture of pity and amusement. I didn't like his grin one bit. He commented that it would really be a shame if potential such as mine got wasted as a measly detective, never aspiring to higher and better things. He was pushing me, and if you REALLY knew me, you'd know I despise being pushed. So I pushed back. I reminded him that it was the measly detectives that become heroes in the long run just by doing their job, and if that didn't work, I could always have their job.

I took a badge to serve and protect, and that's an oath I swear to uphold.

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"Vocé abuso" by P.A.C. Marqués and A.C. Jocafi is a lovely Brazilian piece; one of those songs that if you fall for the music you think it's such a romantic song… until you hear the lyrics, that is…


	8. HAWKES

**A/N: **This is, perhaps, the hardest relationship of them all…

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HAWKES – THE SEA

_The sea, with changing reflects, like rain itself_

I can't figure you out, man. And that always makes me feel unsure around you. Well, that and the fact that you're a fucking genius. Few people can make me feel as self-conscious as you do… ok, actually, you make me feel like an idiot, but damned if I'd ever admit that to you or to anyone else.

Funny thing is, I admire you. I admire the devotion you feel towards your work, and the compassion you feel towards those in need. I admire the way you never loose sight of what you want, and how you've managed to stay true to yourself despite everything else around you. I also admire that you're not afraid to try out new things, even if you're not sure you'd excel at them.

I know we've not always seen things the same way; more often than not, we but heads because we can't seem to even agree to disagree. I remember the first case we worked together, I wasn't sure you actually belonged out there. When you wiped out your card and gave it to the grieving mother, I couldn't believe my eyes. I couldn't decide if you were too involved or too stupid, and I let you know about it. Of course, you had to turn it around and call my bluff and relate to my being jealous about you stepping into what I consider my turf. I ain't accepting or denying anything.

When it comes to us, it's always the science vs. gut cop endless debate. Take the psycho magician case, for example. I was trying to be nice. Notice the emphasis on "trying". Small talk, I mean, how difficult can it be to have small talk with you? Houdini seemed like an obvious choice given where we were. All you had to do was say "Oh, really?" or "I don't think so" and be done with it. But you had to question my choice of small talk. And not happy with that, you failed to notice the sarcastic joke (okay, okay, more sarcasm than joke… whatever…) attempt with the whole DNA and RNA. I swear that if our suspect hadn't come out just then and you had started trying to explain the difference I would have decked you. Really.

But I know that, deep down, we not only respect each other, but also care for each other. I wouldn't go as far as calling you a friend, not like I'd call Danny or Stella, but you're not in the level of acquaintance, and calling you a coworker just seems too cold.

How do you go about calling a person that subtly tells you they're glad you're alive after facing an Irish mobster's wrong side of the barrel, or try to comfort you and your guilty conscience by telling you that you were just doing your job?

Or how do you explain that sinking feeling in your gut when you hear there's been an accident and the person you respect and care for, but won't go as far as calling friend, has been hurt in a diving accident? How do you justify driving there as if the devil was chasing behind you, not trusting the reports you were getting over the radio, but having to see with your own eyes that he was doing fine?

We're family… sort of. We're closer than my own family, that's for sure, and I'm sure I'm as proud of your achievements as your parents are, maybe even more, as I'm not sure they totally understood you wanting to stop working with the living to start helping the dead…

But I do know that you're not static, and our relationship, whatever name you want to tag on it, isn't either. It's more like the sea, really. Cause even when it seems calm and quite on the surface, you always know deep down there's undercurrents flowing and shifting and forever moving around one another, sometimes in the same direction, sometimes against each other, but always together, nonetheless.

Just like you and me.

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"La Mer" by Charles Trenet is a lovely French song… perhaps you know it better as "Beyond the Sea"… but it gave me the idea of change and movement and being ill at ease…


	9. LINDSAY

**A/N: ** This, I think, is a complex relationship. I do believe that if Messer hadn't been there, these two might have had a chance at something else (they do look cute together!) and, on the other hand, how do you go about dealing with your best friend's significant other?

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LINDSAY – ALFONSINA AND THE SEA

_Only God knows what heartbreaks you endured, what old pains your voice silenced… _

_And if he calls, don't tell him I'm home, tell him Alfonsina isn't coming back… and if he calls, never tell him I'm home, just tell him I'm gone…_

Despite the sneezing and the teary eyes and everything uncomfortable that goes with an allergy attack, I was able to take a good look at you at the zoo the day you arrived. And I _liked_ what I saw. Really liked. I knew you'd be a handful and a half, and not an easy one to tame, and I was up to the challenge. I knew (and I can say this without a false sense of modesty) that you were pleased with the sight before you. I'm sure Montana has its share of good looking guys, but not sure there are many Irish around. It's the blue eye/dark hair combo that scores every time.

I thought it was almost a done deal. I'd wait a couple of weeks for you to settle down, get used to the routine and then ask you out for a beer at Sullivan's. Maybe shoot some pool. Very police-like, very neutral, very… safe. Two, three outings like those and then I'd switch to dinner at a low key place… somewhere that didn't scream "date" as soon as you walked in. And then…

That's as far as my planning went. My allergy was getting the worst of me, on the one hand, and in the other, the scowl on Messer's face spelled trouble. I knew he was determined to hate anyone who tried to replace Aiden, only because it was easier to hate the newbie than blame Mac… or Aiden herself, for the whole thing. Somehow, I got the feeling that Danny wouldn't take lightly the fact that I decided to put my moves on you. So I decided to back down and lay low until he kinda warmed up to you and then it wouldn't pose an issue. You seemed like a sweet kid, a competent cop as well, and those dimples of yours were going to be hard to resist, so I was sure sooner or later Danny will accept you for you and then it'll all be a walk in the park.

What is it that they say about best laid plans? I knew I'd lost my window of opportunity as soon as you asked Messer to "make tracks". It slammed on my fingers as hard as it had smacked Danny on the face. I didn't need no Einstein IQ to figure that out, either. When you've been around him for as long as you have, and you've double dated until you had made an art out of it, you tend to know every single non-verbal cue of your partner-in-crime. And Danny's non-verbals were louder than hell itself.

So I took a step back and watched. And watched, and watched. I saw how you reformed my best buddy without even planning on it; I saw how you made a man out of the boy… and the only "date" you've ever had was your idea… and it was solely to show Messer who's boss. I'm telling you, I'd have paid good money to see his face that night, when he saw Mac up on stage and realized he'd just been had.

Suddenly, subtly, you began changing. You began coming to work with your face puffed, as if you've been up all night crying; and you began acting weird around crime scenes making everyone wonder what was wrong with you.

Everyone but Messer, that is. You'll have to excuse my friend; he's a bit of an idiot when it comes to love, having experienced it seldom in his life. He was so worried about how to take whatever you two were feeling for each other to the next level that he failed to see the way you were behaving. When he should have been analyzing you carefully, he decided to take the plunge and ask you out. Needless to say, your "it's not you, it's me" speech didn't help zilch. I should know. I spent the next three weekends watching him get wasted and listened over and over again as he agonized over all the reasons you had to turn him down, no matter how nicely you've done it.

He wasn't the greatest of people to be around the following months, but it all went to hell when you flew to Montana without saying goodbye. Granted, that "Moo" card was something else, but it didn't avoid the drunken self-pity party. He was sure you had gone back to marry the fiancé you've never mentioned before, and that you were never coming back.

I have a confession to make, Linds. I went behind you back and did some background checking on you. Please understand I did it for my friend, because I couldn't stand his moping about any longer, because it broke my heart to see him worrying about you so badly he couldn't see up from down. So I contacted the local PD and soon I knew why you were back in Montana and why you had been acting the way you had been acting.

And I had to tell Danny.

I had no idea he'd go all knight in shinning armor and fly to your rescue, and I'm sure nobody actually believed it until you confirmed it; but everyone who knew Danny knew that meant he was a goner. The moment I saw you coming out of the airport gate holding hands, I knew it was a done deal.

The knowledge was confirmed at a later date over drinks. Now don't give me that look and please put that gun away. Danny's not the type to kiss and tell… much. He just says enough so I know you two are doing good by each other and that you're happy and that's all I want and need to know.

On second thought… sprayed-on latex??? You gotta be kidding me, Montana!

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"Alfonsina y el mar" by Ariel Ramírez and Félix Luna is a song based on the death of Argentinean poet Alfonsina Storni, who committed suicide by walking into the sea. She's one of the greatest female/feminist poets of early 19th century, always having a hard time finding her place in a world that was male dominated.


	10. MAC

**A/N: ** Love-hate? Fear-respect? Ying-yang? How can we describe Flack and Mac's relationship?

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MAC – WALL

_Something is happening, this time around I feel like I'm being left alone… as alone as night…_

My life would be so much easier if I could just tell you to fuck off; or if I vowed to Sinclair's wishes and became a snitch, working close to you only to make you tumble and fall. But I can't do that, not to you. Especially not to you.

It would also be easier if I didn't respect your fucking sense of duty and that obsession of yours of doing the right thing. Because I share it. Because I swore to serve and protect. Because I'd rather die or rot in jail than live or go free knowing that I allowed a wrong to go unpunished simply because I didn't do anything about it,

It would be a helluva lot simpler if I didn't feel like I owed you my own frigging life. Not that you remind me of it. Not that you've asked for my loyalty or my silence in payment. Not that you've used that knowledge as a bargain chip when things come up between you and me. But I still feel that gratitude and I'd certainly think twice before doing anything to upset that delicate balance we've established.

I KNOW I don't owe you, God knows I'd tried to do the same for you have our roles be reversed. Lucky thing was that they weren't, cause between you and me, you're a better "tailor" that I'd ever dream of being. I'd probably stuck my hands in there and kept them there until help arrived, not once considering there were better ways of stopping your bleeding. And if you had died… I'd kept the rest of my life the image of my hands covered in your blood… in more ways than one.

Damn it, Mac, you're more my father than my own flesh and blood, and just like the original DNA donor, dealing with you is like pounding on a wall… useless and painful most of the times. I say "go", you say "wait"; I go with my gut (as scarred as it is) you go with your evidence (as flaky as it sometimes feels); I want to do things my way, you want me to learn that your way is better. Pops was never as keen on this side of my education as you are.

The worst part is, most of the times I agree with you. Problem is, it's always the fucking circumstances that have us sitting on different sides of the same fence, over and over again. Call it Truby, Dobson, the pigeon kid, Aiden, Danny, Stella, the Irish mob… you push, I pull and we never stop for a second to realize we both want to get to the same place, eventually. We just choose different paths.

You have your science, I have my gut, and never the twain shall meet. You have your army training, I have my street upbringing, and we both see things in black and white, except we never seem to agree on which shade to stand. The wall stands between us, immovable as time and crime itself.

Some of those bricks were put in there by those around us; those who fall with us because they love us and those who'd love to see us fall.

Some of the bricks have been put there by the circumstances, the ones we created and the ones we stumbled on; the ones we support and the ones we bear simply because we have no other choice. Circumstances, situations, locations… solved or saved, all of them are there, each and every one of them.

And then there are the bricks that we've put them ourselves. Your losses and mine, your beliefs, the ones I share and those I disregard without much thought; your laughter and my tears, your pain and my smiles. The people we love and the ones we'd be willing to die for.

Heavy bricks, light bricks, bricks full of joy and bricks full of sorrow… bricks filled with a sense of duty and bricks mortared with a sense of obligation. All out story is in those bricks, in that wall. And maybe it's a good thing that the wall is there, cause it gives silent testimony of just who, exactly, you and I are. A wall that surrounds us and everything we stand for, right or wrong.

Too bad it's the same wall that sometimes stands between us!

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"Muro" by Carlos Varela is a song that deals mostly with doing what you have to do and bearing the loneliness that derives from it… fitting, huh?


	11. STELLA

**A/N: **I know some of you think I left this one for the last on purpose. I swear I did them in strict alphabetical order to avoid any source of bias… really…

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STELLA – I ONLY THINK OF YOU

_I try to paint you, and I can't manage to do so. After slowly studying you I end up thinking that I'm lacking the intense colors that would reflect your unusual beauty; I can't capture your smile, or grasp your looks, little by little, I only think of you…_

I know I'm a fine one to talk.

I do. I really do. Love you, I mean. I know I'm not exactly bending over with demonstrations of my feelings for you. But there's a reason for it, and if you bear with me long enough, I'll tell you about it.

First it was lust, as simple as that. Ask any officer who's worked with you a case or two if they don't resort to your cleavage or your legs while sharing an intimate moment with themselves and you'll have either a bunch of liars or a group of cheek-burning mumbling idiots. Even Robson, who's as gay as they come, has commented on your… uh… "assets". And if his queer eyes wander, how do you expect mine not to have done so?

Then it was admiration. When I hears about you facing Mac over the police horse case, and how you armed and disarmed that weapon… man… do you have any idea just how hot that is? A fine looking chic with a fine looking gun and the knowledge that she can actually USE it? Please forgive my Penthouse moments on your behalf; when you're absolutely sure you can look but you'll never be allowed to touch you make do with whatever you can.

Then there was that time at the break room… I thought maybe I had imagined the whole thing… but I swear I felt something click in place the moment I saw you and all of a sudden I wanted to kiss you. Probably would have, if Mac hadn't walked in just then, with some new evidence for us to work with.

Ever since then, I've wondered. Wondered how your mouth would feel on mine, how your body will react to mine when I hold you close, how my heart would stop beating the moment you said you loved me…

See? I told you. I love you.

I've just never told you. I have my reasons. They're probably no the best reasons in the planet, and I'm pretty sure you' call them excuses and you'd probably be right, but that's just the way things are. First it was the issue of seniority… until I became Detective myself. Then I said it was the age difference… until you mentioned that May-December romances worked better when the woman was the one with more life experience.

Then there was Frankie, and the hurt and the pain and the fear and the mistrust, and I spent a long time feeling I had to tip-toe around you in order not to scare you. Then I got blown up and there was pain again, albeit a different kind, but enough for you to be doing the tip-toeing this time around.

Then we started sort of, kinda, something like flirting. And it felt good, and it felt a bit like something forbidden and it felt like maybe just maybe it might get us somewhere… somewhere warm and exciting and dangerous and everything else that made my insides go gooey whenever you were standing next to me.

But then there was all that mess with you getting caught and the possibility of AIDS and everything that went with the waiting and it hurt that you decided to shy away from me instead of asking for my support. I wanted to believe that you knew I'd go to hell and back for you, but your actions spoke louder than my wishful thinking and it felt like we were back to square one, except we never got to collect the 200…

And now that you're back to the land of the living for good and you seem to irradiate life wherever you go. I love that, mind you, except that I don't seem to be the only one noticing it. Would you think less of me if I admit to jealousy? First there was the landlord from the Statue of Liberty case who seemed to be far more interested in you as a female than as the lead in the murder case of his girlfriend. Then there is that matter of a certain pesky guy who doesn't seem to take a hint and leave you alone and what is it with the weird gifts, anyway? If I could be certain that you'd never EVER find out I'd probably take him for a spin in a patrol car…

Last but not least, there's Mac. I know you've two have known each other since forever, and that you're definitively a force to be reckoned with when working together and that you're the only one that really understands him and it didn't really surprise that you were the first to find out about Peyton and that you rushed to his side as soon as you sensed his need. And that's all fine and dandy and it speaks volumes of you, and I know that you'd do the same for any one of us in the team. But the Neanderthal in me, the one with huge issues of possessiveness and jealousy and every bad thing that could possibly cloud my judgment simply does not like the way you smile at him.

I know. I already said I'm a fine one to talk, didn't I? You're probably listening to all of this and wondering how dare I play the jealous card when I was the one parading a girlfriend all over the place. In my defense I'll say it was jealousy all over again. I know, I know. In my warped logic, and since I thought you were interested in the freaky guy from the antique shop, I decided that two cold play the game and I was certain that I'd pique your interest once more if you saw me more as a man and less as a cop.

Granted, you got to see me as a James Bond wannabe, and you probably catalogued Devon as an airhead the minute she opened her mouth and I had never felt so stupid in my entire life. The moment I saw that look on your face and heard the sarcasm dripping from your voice I knew I had chosen the worst possible strategy and I felt… I felt "dirty" and unworthy of you. How juvenile of me to think you'd feel threatened by the likes of a girl like her!

Not only that, but you, poised and gracious like you always are, came to my rescue when I fumbled at the party. Of course you'd know the exact words I should tell her in order to keep my anatomy intact! But truth to be told, my problem was not what to tell her… I'm a cop; I know the value of a well timed half-truth. My problem was that after seeing you in that black dress I could barely remember her name. Even worse, I couldn't find a single reason to go back to her after that night. My hesitance was finding the right wording to not promise something I was not going to do, and do it in such way we wouldn't cause a scene.

And I haven't seen her since. She hasn't called me either, so I guess she found something more thrilling to play with that a simple mortal who gets to play hero in a tux every now and then. And if I played a lame Flack, Don Flack, and I'd rather have my Guinness over a martini on any given day, you outshone every single Bond girl in the world and then some. It should be you the one with the Bonasera, Stella Bonasera line, and not me.

And now that you know the truth, and since you know that these eyes would never lie, would you please, please give me a chance?

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"Solo pienso en ti" by R. García Blanca is, perhaps, my favorite song in the album. That it fitted what I had in mind for Stella has absolutely nothing to do with it. Really…

I take this opportunity to bid a temporary farewell to those readers who are kind enough to follow my work, read and review it. I'm taking November off to work on my NaNoWriMo project… perhaps my first step into actually writing for a living. So wish me luck! I promise I'll be back in December, bearing gifts and such…


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